CHAPTER TWO: INTO THE DEPTHS

The chill of the Gotham morning bit through Taylor’s stolen sweatshirt as she walked aimlessly through the city streets, clutching at her stomach with a grimace on her face. The stolen bread from earlier wasn’t enough—though she needed more than food. She needed shelter, information, resources, and a plan.

She sighed.

The rising sun did little to lift the haze that clung to the air, nor did it detract from the fact that where her home had been a rotting corpse of a city, slowly eaten alive by apathy and decay, Gotham was something else—a predator in its prime, alive and ravenous. Every corner seemed to harbor shadows deeper than the last, and every street was lined with a sense of quiet desperation.

She kept her head down, her unkempt hair a curtain that hid her face from view as her eyes scanned her surroundings, cataloguing every detail. Her movements were cautious, careful not to draw attention, though every so often, she caught glimpses of the city’s lifeblood: a child clutching their mother’s hand as they hurried down the sidewalk, a shopkeeper angrily shooing away a homeless man camped outside their door, a businesswoman gripping her briefcase tightly as she darted into a cab. Everyone moved with purpose, but also with an underlying wariness that unsettled her.

The city was indeed alive, its heart pumping with crime, fear, and despair.

Taylor turned into a rundown alley, the scent of rotting garbage hanging thick in the air. The streets were narrower, the building shorter and packed tightly together, and a few old cars were parked along the curb, their windows shattered and tires flat.

The faint sound of sirens seemed to wail constantly in the distance—another reminder that this wasn’t her world. Police presence was relatively minimal compared to parahumans and larger organizations like the Protectorate or villain groups.

Her steps eventually took her past an old corner store with barred windows and a peeling sign, its fluorescent lights flickering inside. Adjacent to it, a group of teenagers huddled together, their eyes darting around nervously as they exchanged small packages and wads of cash.

As she turned the next corner, a scream cut through the air—a man’s voice, panicked and desperate. Taylor froze, her pulse quickening as the sound came again, echoing down the empty street. Other voices followed, harsh and threatening, and she pressed herself into the shadow of a nearby building, assessing the situation

A convenience store sat just across the empty street, its flickering neon sign casting a pale glow on the cracked pavement. Inside, through the grime-streaked windows, she spotted two men wearing mismatched jackets and ski masks. One waved a pistol at the clerk, who stood rigid behind the counter, his hands raised.

Stay out of it, a voice in her head warned. You should keep walking. This isn't your fight.

She wasn’t in Brockton Bay anymore, she didn’t have her swarm to back her up, and without it, she was just… her. No enhanced awareness, no perfect coordination, no armour; just a girl with stolen, dirty clothes. Her clumsy attempt at stealing food was proof enough that she wasn’t ready for Gotham’s dangers. But another part of her—the part that couldn’t stand by while people got hurt, the part that wanted to be a hero—pushed her forward.

Then, the clerk’s voice reached her ears, trembling and desperate. “Please… I have a family—just take the money!”

And something inside her refused to let her walk away. She couldn’t stand by. Not now. Not ever.

Her eyes darted to the ground, to the strewn debris of the alley she stood near. A half-broken broom leaned against a dumpster, its wooden handle jagged where the bristles had been snapped off. Grabbing it, Taylor tested its weight and grip. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

Her mind raced. She couldn’t rely on her usual tactics, but she could still think.

You’ve handled worse. Use what you have.

She eyed a car parked near the store and an old tin can lying nearby. Quietly, she picked up the can, took aim, and threw it as hard as she could.

The can hit the car with a loud clang, the sound echoing down the street. The two men inside the store whipped their heads toward the noise.

“What was that?” one of them hissed.

Taylor crouched low, creeping closer to the store’s entrance as the robbers’ attention shifted.

The man with the gun gestured toward the door, his grip tightening on the weapon. “Go check it out,” he barked at his partner.

The second man grumbled but complied, stepping outside with a crowbar in hand. Taylor flattened herself against the wall, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. As he moved past her, she swung the broom handle hard, catching him in the back of the knee.

He yelped, collapsing onto the pavement. Taylor lunged, jabbing the jagged end of the broomstick into his ribs before he could recover. He gasped, dropping the crowbar, and rolled onto his side, clutching his side.

The sound of movement from inside the store jolted her back to reality. The man with the gun was shouting now, his footsteps growing louder. Taylor didn’t think—she grabbed the crowbar and hurled it through the store window. The glass shattered in a deafening crash, and the man ducked instinctively, his aim wavering.

Using the distraction to her advantage, Taylor darted into the store, swinging the broom handle at his outstretched arm. The gun went off, the bullet whizzing past her ear to bury itself in the ceiling.

The sound should have left her ears ringing, her thoughts scattered. But it didn’t. Her breath hitched for only a moment, and then her senses sharpened, her body reacting on instinct instead of crumbling under the deafening crack—her grip tightening on the makeshift weapon.

Taylor didn’t have time to wonder why she wasn’t disoriented, why the usual effect that followed gunshots hadn’t overtaken her. Instead, she swung again, this time catching his wrist. The weapon clattered to the floor, and Taylor kicked it away before he could recover.

The man roared in frustration, lunging at her with brute force. Taylor barely sidestepped him, her movements awkward and uncoordinated. She swung wildly, her grip slipping, and he caught her by the arm, wrenching her weapon away.

Panic surged as he slammed her into a nearby shelf, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Her vision blurred briefly, and she struggled to regain her footing as he closed in.

Think, Taylor! Adapt!

Her eyes darted to the shelves around her, cluttered with canned goods and cheap snacks. She grabbed the first thing her hands found—another tin of soup—and hurled it at his face. He flinched, the can bouncing off his mask, and Taylor used the opening to shove him hard, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Before he could rise, she grabbed a metal display rack and tipped it over, the heavy structure crashing onto his legs. He howled in pain, thrashing beneath the weight.

The clerk stared at her, wide-eyed and frozen. “Go!” Taylor barked, her voice rough. “Get somewhere safe and call the police.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The clerk bolted toward the back exit, disappearing into the night.

Taylor turned back to the man trapped beneath the rack, her breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, she considered interrogating him, demanding to know if he worked for one of Gotham’s gangs she had heard of. But the faint sound of approaching sirens snapped her out of it.

She stumbled out of the store, her legs shaky and her hands trembling. Her entire body ached, and her thoughts raced with what-ifs and near-misses. She had won—barely—but it hadn’t been skill or strength that saved her. It had been luck, desperation, and quick thinking.

As she ducked into an alley and leaned against the cold brick wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the cold pavement, Taylor closed her eyes. Her hands still trembled, and her heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest.

That was sloppy. Stupid.

The clumsiness of her movements, the sloppiness of her attacks, the way panic had nearly paralyzed her—it all hit her at once, a crushing reminder of how far she had fallen.

You’re weak. You’re slow. You almost got yourself killed.

But she was alive. She had managed to defeat the would-be robbers, and the clerk had gotten away. That counted for something. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

“I have to get better,” she muttered to herself, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “I have to rebuild.”

She couldn’t rely on powers she no longer had. She couldn’t wait for answers to fall into her lap. If she wanted to survive in this city, if she wanted to make a difference, she had to start from scratch. Shelter, food, knowledge—those were her immediate goals. But beyond that, she needed to relearn how to fight, and how to survive without her swarm.

Taylor pushed herself to her feet. Her mind was still reeling, but she forced herself to keep going. There was no time to wallow in self-pity.

This was Gotham, and it didn't seem like a city that waited for anyone. If she wanted to make it through, she had to keep moving, keep adapting.

She wasn’t Skitter. She wasn’t Weaver. But she was still Taylor Hebert.

And she would rebuild herself, one step at a time.